The Wizard’s Daughter

by Barbara Michaels

  He ran out. Marianne turned defiantly to Carlton, expecting some sarcastic comment. She was not disappointed.

  "Angel of goodness," he repeated, mimicking the vicar's deep voice with devastating effect. "Good of you to let the lady take tea in her own parlor from her own teapot."

  Marianne was saved from a rude reply by the opening of the door. The vicar's tall body towered over the form of a woman so slender and small that she looked like a child playing at dress-up in her mother's clothes. She had very pretty, soft brown hair, which fell loose in a style more appropriate to a young lady than a mother and a widow. Marianne suspected that she wore it so in an attempt to veil her face. That face was turned aside and her hand, toying nervously with a stray lock of hair, further concealed her features.

  Marianne rose and curtsied. "It is an honor to meet you, Lady Violet. Not knowing you were coming, I fear I have taken your place. Will you not sit here?"

  Her voice was so sweet and her manner so genuinely anxious to please that the rigid little figure in the doorway relaxed and took a few timid steps forward. The vicar beamed approval over her head; even Carlton's eagle glance softened, though Marianne missed this rare sign of approval, so eager was she to make the lady feel at ease.

  "Thank you," was the reply, in tones so soft they could scarcely be heard. "Please don't get up; I will sit here." And she indicated a chair as far removed as possible from the window.

  "May I pour you a cup of tea?" Marianne asked.

  "Thank you."

  Carlton had risen too. "May I say how well you are looking, Lady Violet. Have one of these little cakes."

  Lady Violet had to lower her hand, which she had kept before her face, in order to take the proffered cake. She had big, expressive brown eyes. They darted rapidly from one face to the next, as if trying to judge the effect of her disfigurement.

  Marianne was glad she had been warned. The harelip was more pathetic than terrible, but without some preparation she might have allowed some demonstration of surprise to escape her. The vicar smiled on all and sundry and bounced up and down on his heels, his hands clasped behind him like a proud father watching his child's performance.

  The conversation was easy, thanks primarily – Marianne had to admit – to Roger Carlton, who babbled on about the topics of the day. Once Lady Violet actually laughed at one of his jokes. Finally the vicar, who had consumed quite a quantity of tea and sandwiches after all, rose to take his leave.

  "This has been a most pleasant meeting. It has been too long since I have seen you, Lady Violet, Now -" he lifted an admonitory finger – "I expect to see you on Sunday. Promise you won't fail me."

  A look of terror clouded the lady's fine brown eyes.

  "Perhaps," Marianne said quickly, "Lady Violet will be good enough to let me accompany her to church. I don't suppose," she added, with a cold glance at Carlton, "that anyone else in the household will be attending."

  "The very thing," St. John exclaimed, with rather excessive enthusiasm. "It is settled then; I look forward to seeing you both."

  The door had hardly closed behind him when Lady Violet rose.

  "It has been pleasant," she murmured. "Thank you, I must go now – I will see you again -"

  She left with a gliding, rapid movement that reminded Marianne of the elusive figure she had seen in the dark hallway.

  "That was kindly meant," Carlton said, resuming his seat and taking the last scone. "But it was a mistake. She won't go."

  "To church? But why not? It is terrifying to walk down that aisle with all the villagers staring; I thought companionship might make it easier for her. It certainly would be pleasanter for me. My offer was not entirely unselfish."

  "I cannot contradict that, since you insist upon it. Good heavens, Miss Ransom, just think a moment; with her sad misfortune, to be seen beside a girl radiant with youthful beauty – why, the contrast is too pitiful."

  Marianne felt herself blushing. Did he really think her "radiant"? He had never paid her a compliment before.

  And he seemed to regret having done so now, for he went on rapidly, with a self-conscious look, "I know many people with similar difficulties – birthmarks, withered limbs, wens, and so on – some try to hide, others make the best of it and face life with a smile and a jest. Perhaps it is more difficult for a woman who might, but for that, be beautiful."

  "You are right," Marianne said, wondering at his perception. "She would be beautiful; she has lovely eyes and skin, beautiful hair, a pretty figure. Life is very sad."

  "How profound." Carlton's eyes shone with amusement over the rim of the cup he had raised to his lips.

  "I must go to the Duchess," Marianne said coolly.

  Curse the man, she thought, stamping up the stairs. Why was he so gentle and sympathetic one moment and so sarcastic the next? It was as if he wanted to win her confidence only so he could make fun of her. He had been so kind with Lady Violet. Was it possible that he could feel…? She must be years older than he, Marianne told herself, not realizing that she was paying Carlton the highest compliment in her power by assuming that Lady Violet's pitiful looks would not affect his feelings.

  At least she had finally met the mysterious figure she had seen wandering in the night like a lost soul. She could not believe such a shy, timid woman would play malicious tricks. Cross one off her list of suspects.

  She had hoped to find the Duchess resting, but such was not the case. The lady was wide awake and ready to be amused. So Marianne stayed with her, sharing her dinner and reading from Pride and Prejudice until the Duchess began to nod.

  "What a good child you are," she murmured drowsily, as Marianne bent over her to bid her good night. "Giving up your evening to entertain an old woman…"

  Much as she would like to have thought of herself as noble and self-sacrificing, Marianne could not really feel that she had given up much. An evening with Carlton and Gruffstone grumbling at her, or Henry asking impertinent questions and his tutor glowering… Of course, there was Lady Annabelle and the cat Horace.

  On leaving the room she was surprised to see Dr. Gruffstone sitting in a chair in the hall, his legs stretched out in front of him, his hands folded over his stomach, and a series of snuffling snores coming from his parted lips. He woke the instant the door closed and blinked drowsily at her.

  "She is not asleep yet, is she?"

  "Not quite; but she was dropping off when I left."

  "I want to have another look at her,"

  Gruffstone said, rising with a grunt. "I hope you said nothing -"

  "The subject is as unpleasant to me as it is to you, sir," Marianne answered quickly. But the doctor looked so weary and so sad, like a tired old bear, that she regretted her sauciness. "She did not mention that subject and neither did I," she said more gently. "Truly, sir, she seems much better."

  "Good, good." The doctor peered at her over his spectacles. "You look a little peaked yourself, young lady. I will just drop in for a moment after I have seen the Duchess. I promised her I would look after you. Go on and prepare for bed; an old man like myself cannot endanger your reputation."

  He smiled as he spoke, and looked so amiable and avuncular that Marianne could not refuse his offer, though she had no particular desire to be poked and prodded and made to say "ah."

  When she reached her room she found her bath waiting, her bed turned back, and all the other duties of a maid performed; but Annie was not to be seen. Marianne tested the bathwater and found it still hot. She made a sour face. Annie was trying to emulate the little elves who had helped the shoemaker, but her motive in remaining unseen was superstitious fear.

  So Marianne did not ring for help in preparing for bed. Since the bath was neatly concealed behind a screen, she had no hesitation in hopping into it; if the doctor came into the room, she would still be private. She took her time, enjoying the comfort of the hot water, and then put on the flannel nightgown she had to warm before the fire, covering it with a heavy dressing gown.

&nb
sp; She was toasting her feet and reading Wuthering Heights, which she had neglected for the past few days, when the doctor knocked.

  "Nothing much wrong with you," he said, after examining her. "Have you trouble sleeping?"

  "Not often."

  "A glass of wine, perhaps, if you are wakeful."

  "I can't drink wine," Marianne said. "The other evening I felt quite faint and giddy after dinner."

  "During the seance?" The doctor laughed shortly. "No wonder."

  "I don't think it was that. Indeed, the symptoms improved as the evening wore on; but it was not until much later, when I had taken some food and several cups of tea, that I felt quite myself again."

  'Hmph. Let me see your tongue once more."

  Gravely he examined the protruding member and then shook his head.

  "If you have an ailment it is not of the body. Did you take any wine tonight?"

  "Yes; the Duchess insisted that I take a glass with her."

  "And you feel no such symptoms as you felt last night?"

  "No."

  "Then it cannot have been the wine," the doctor said. "No doubt you are suffering from nervous strain; that would not be surprising. The Duchess wants me to give you some medicine, so…" From his bag he took a bottle of dark-brown liquid. "A mild sedative in case you find yourself wakeful. You probably will not need it; but at least I can tell Her Grace, when she asks, that I duly prescribed for you. It will be our little conspiracy, eh?"

  He smiled and took his leave. Marianne was not as reassured by his comments as she ought to have been. The big brown bottle on the table seemed to wink and grimace at her as the firelight reflected dully from its glass surface. Having medicine prescribed suggests that medicine is needed, no matter what the verbal disclaimers.

  She read for a little longer, but found that the descriptions of desolate heaths and wailing ghostly voices did nothing to relieve her nerves. So she got into bed and blew out the candle, and fell asleep almost at once.

  Later, however, she seemed to wake – or rather, to come halfway out of slumber into a state midway between unconsciousness and dreaming. The fire had died to a bed of coals that gave no light, but the room was alive with small sounds and movements – rustlings and soft creakings and a distant whistling wail, like that of a rising wind.

  Marianne could not decide whether she was awake or dreaming of waking. She tried to remember whether she had locked her door after the doctor left. Somehow the question did not seem important. She concluded that she must be dreaming, stimulated by the eerie prose of Miss Bronte, and was about to woo slumber again when the bed vibrated with the fall of a heavy weight upon it.

  Fully, shockingly awake, Marianne tried to pull her body up and away from the object that pressed the bedclothes tight against her lower limbs. She was on the verge of hysteria – not the medical state the doctor had described, but a good, old-fashioned screaming fit – when one particular sound reached her ears and produced a miraculous cure for her nerves. It was a low, rumbling purr.

  Marianne stretched out her hand. It brushed a soft, furry surface.

  There is no more soothing sound than a cat's purr; when the animal walked up the length of the girl's body and settled down next to her she wrapped both arms around its warm bulk and let the purring sing her to sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Until the following morning Marianne did not know, or care, which of Lady Annabelle's pets had given her such a fright. She was awakened by a small head pushing against her chin and claws kneading her chest. She opened her eyes. The face confronting her had a pink nose, blue eyes, and white fur.

  "Fluffy," Marianne said drowsily.

  Fluffy meowed. She jumped off the bed and marched to the door, where she meowed again and stared demandingly at Marianne. The girl lost no time in responding; she was well aware of Fluffy's delicate constitution, and did not want to be responsible for any untoward accidents.

  She let the cat out and watched it saunter down the hall, its tail waving.

  The room was so dark she thought it must be very early, but when she looked at her watch she saw that it was after eight o'clock. The sounds she had heard in the night had not been the product of nightmare after all; the wind still howled around the eaves and drove rain against the windowpanes. The air felt damp and chilly. Marianne hopped back into the warm bed and gave the bellpull a determined yank. She had let Annie off often enough; this morning she wanted hot tea and hot water and a hot fire.

  Annie was in no hurry to respond, however. The warmth of the blankets and the monotonous, soothing beat of the rain made Marianne drowsy. She was remembering her nocturnal fears and smiling at her own fancies when a thought occurred to her – one that should have occurred long before. How had the cat gotten into her room?

  That alarming question dispelled the last vestiges of drowsiness. She could not remember whether she had locked her door, but it had most certainly been closed. Or had it? Perhaps the latch had not caught and the cat had pushed the door open. Marianne found that hard to believe, though. The doors were several inches thick, of wood so hard it was almost petrified. Fluffy was not a massively muscled cat like Horace, she was one of the smaller of Lady Annabelle's pets. Furthermore, Marianne realized, the door had been firmly shut that morning; she had had to twist the knob to open it for Fluffy. There seemed no way around the conclusion that at some time during the night the door- or a door – had been opened by a human hand.

  She was about to ring the bell again when Annie finally came. Amusement mingled with Marianne's annoyance when she saw that Annie's companion was the same stalwart young footman. He was carrying an armful of firewood as well as a bucket of steaming water. Annie had a breakfast tray, which she handed Marianne at arm's length.

  After the fire was blazing, Marianne asked the young man his name. He started as if she had shouted at him, but managed to answer that his name was John.

  "Thank you, John," Marianne said. "You may go now. I want to talk to Annie."

  Annie's eyes opened so wide the white showed all around her dilated pupils. Twisting her hands in the folds of her apron, she backed off until she was as far from Marianne as she could get without actually leaving the room.

  "Stop being so silly, Annie," Marianne said impatiently. "You look as if you expect me to sprout horns and a tail. I am only human, like yourself. Why are you afraid of me?"

  "They say…" Annie began. Words failed her.

  "They? Who? The other servants? Who is spreading wild stories about me?"

  Annie shrugged, her eyes rolling wildly, and Marianne realized it was useless to try to get anything coherent out of her. If those who listen to rumors were capable of analyzing their origins, they would not believe them in the first place.

  "The Duchess has been conducting seances for years," Marianne persisted. "You aren't afraid of her. Why me?"

  Annie knew the answer to that one. "You're his daughter, miss. The wizard's daughter."

  "No, I am not!" The vehemence of the statement startled Marianne almost as much as it did Annie. It was the first time since the suggestion had been made that she had denied it with perfect conviction. She went on, "I am a poor orphan from Yorkshire whom the Duchess has befriended – not so different from you, you see. I would like to be your friend."

  "Yes, miss." Annie continued to crumple her neat white apron, but she appeared less nervous.

  "All right, you may go," Marianne said with a sigh. She had done all that she could. "I am sure your sweetheart is still waiting for you outside, to protect you from me."

  "Oh, miss, he's not my sweetheart." Annie giggled.

  "If he is not, it is your fault; I saw how he looked at you. Run along, now."

  Annie bobbed a curtsy and obeyed. Cheered by what appeared to be at least moderate success in overcoming the girl's fear, Marianne ate her breakfast with good appetite and then washed and dressed. She put on one of her old dresses, for she had a project in mind.

  It was possible tha
t someone had opened her door during the night, allowing the cat to slip in. The sighing of wind and rain would have concealed any sound. But there was another possibility. As she knew from her reading, old castles were replete with secret passages, hidden rooms, and other such features. Indeed, young Henry had bragged of his familiarity with the passageways that honeycombed the castle walls.

  Marianne set about the search with the optimism born of ignorance that is characteristic of the young. An older, wiser person would have told her she had little chance of success. Even if such devices existed, a certain degree of expertise was necessary to discover them. Older, wiser persons are constantly annoyed by the unwarranted success of the young and ignorant; and such was the case in this instance. Since the entire room was paneled, the search took quite some time and Marianne was beginning to be bored when one of the Tudor roses on a panel by the fireplace yielded to the pressure of her fingers and the panel itself slid quietly to one side.

  More excited than frightened, Marianne lighted a candle and thrust it into the aperture that had opened before her. The light showed the beginning of a flight of stone steps leading sharply downward. The steps were less than six inches wide and so steep that only a cat could have used them comfortably.

  She was not a cat – or a careless, agile, small boy; the steep pitch of the stairs was more than she cared to attempt. Furthermore, she had no idea where the steps led. She might find herself in some cul-de-sac from which exit was impossible. And what if the door closed and she was unable to discover the catch that would release it? Marianne shivered dramatically, picturing herself pounding desperately on the locked panel until lack of air finally overcame her and she sank into a deathly sleep. This contingency was, of course, most unlikely. The Duke could not be the only one who knew the network of secret passages, and if she turned up missing, a search would certainly be thorough and immediate. All the same, Marianne was not inclined to risk it. Even a few minutes in imprisoning, dusty darkness and she would scream herself into a fit. No, she would not explore. But she could try to make sure no one else used that entrance.